An anniversary of sorts

Sometimes I think about smoking a cigarette.

I even dream about it -- not the act itself -- but I'm rummaging through my purse and find a pack there, or I'm off to the store to buy them.

It's been 15 years since I went from a pack-a-day habit to none.

I remember the day I smoked my last cigarette, June 20, 1992, my son's birthday. It was my gift to him, something he really wanted, something he nagged me about for months (years?). So on June 21, 1992 I quit, cold turkey.

That wasn't the first time I'd tried to quit a habit I'd had since I was 17. But for the first time I was truly ready. It wasn't easy, but as time passed, as I grit my teeth and sat on my hands waiting for the craving to pass, the pangs became less and less urgent.

One of the hardest things I found in giving up this stinky habit was in the mind -- the association I had with smoking a cigarette at every major or happy event in my life. How many photos do I have of those pre '92 years where I'm holding a cigarette?

Those nostalgic associations between smoking and happiness eventually faded.

And now I would not fill my mouth, let alone my lungs, with cigarette smoke. Distasteful thought.

But you know what? My son started smoking.

Go figure.

--Cat